


the king, the legend

by network



Series: by design a victor (pkmn sw/sh) [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: 10 years later, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Tags to be added, The mh impact of basically becoming a world leader at age 13
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/network/pseuds/network
Summary: Jonathon pauses in the hallway of his parent’s home in Postwick, staring up at the photo of a young boy hanging on the wall there.At 7 years of age he’s yet to meet his older half-brother, the one with messy black hair and bright amber eyes depicted in the photo, only about 13 when it was taken. Doesn’t even know his name. His mum doesn’t like to talk about him, so he doesn’t ask, yet the face in the portrait always seems familiar somehow, always gives him an odd feeling.He almost reminds him of the Champion.[ song rec/inspo: cautionary tales by jon bellion ]
Relationships: (very faintly there in the background), Beet | Bede/Masaru | Victor
Series: by design a victor (pkmn sw/sh) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970284
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. i: heard he was born as a beast (and a ghost)

## Part I

> _How people feel when they are returning home from an absence, long or short, I did not know: […] no magnet drew me to a given point, increasing in its strength of attraction the nearer I came._
> 
> \-- Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

  * This is my version of Victor (in match gear): <https://network-failure.tumblr.com/post/623165486911356928>
  * This fic starts off set about 10 years after the Second Darkest Day, so he’s now 23
  * And here’s the obligatory character moodboards: https://pin.it/2UPKhnW



Jonathon pauses in the hallway of his parent’s home in Postwick, staring up at the photo of a young boy hanging on the wall there.

At 7 years of age he’s yet to meet his older half-brother, the one with messy black hair and bright amber eyes depicted in the photo, only about 13 when it was taken. Doesn’t even know his name. His mum doesn’t like to talk about him, so he doesn’t ask, yet the face in the portrait always seems familiar somehow, always gives him an odd feeling.

He shakes it off, and steps into the kitchen.

His mum stands by the hob, gently stirring the quick eggs she’s preparing for breakfast, and she turns to great him as he plops down at the table, bag in hand. “Have you got everything you need for school today?” She asks, placing a plate of scrambled eggs on toast before him.

“Mhm.” He replies, through a mouthful of food. At the slightly reprimanding glance his mum sends him he finishes chewing before continuing. “Eddy said he’s gonna bring his Champion league card in today.” He carries on, unaware of his mum’s strangely sad expression. “I’ve been trying to find one myself, but they’re _sooo_ _rare_.” The last few words are borderline-whined, and his mum gives him a strained smile.

“Is the Champion your favourite then?”

“Why wouldn’t he be!” He responds enthusiastically. “The rest of the gym leaders are cool, yeah, but nobody beats the Champion, like ever! He’s awesome.”

With another strained smile she sends him off to brush his teeth, and sighs once he’s out of earshot, standing stiffly in the empty kitchen. She remains there, thinking to herself, until her husband enters a few moments later.

“Victor?” Is all he needs to ask, and in response she tiredly nods.

“Jon wants his league card.” She presses her hand to her forehead, aware of the growing tension there. “Says he’s his favourite of the gym challenge. I-.”

She’s enveloped in her husband’s arms in an instant. “Don’t stress about him, Caitlin. He’s an adult now, he can handle himself.” They pause, neither quite sure what to say. “Try calling him. Even he must have a few minutes free for his own mother.”

“Yeah”, she murmurs half-heartedly, not really believing him. Her eldest doesn’t seem to have time for anything aside from his Champion duties these days. With an unusually pensive expression she presses Victor’s phone number – his personal one, the one he’s kept since she first bought him a Rotom-phone, not the one that runs through his secretary – into the landline, and waits as it rings, knowing very well that it won’t connect.

She hangs up the moment she hears the automated voicemail.

-

It’s hours later, when little Jon is at school and Steven at work, and she’s out tending to their small farm, that the phone rings, audible through the kitchen door left ajar. Slightly annoyed at the timing, she heads back into the kitchen, wiping her soil-caked hands on an errant tea-towel in the process.

She picks up the landline with a rehearsed greeting and frowns at the silence on the other end. Believing it to be a prank call, she’s about to hang up, when a quiet voice comes through.

“Hey, mum.”

“Vic?” Her tone is entirely too surprised, far too revealing of just how much she’s missed him, and she quickly schools it into something far more even, calmer. “I tried calling you earlier.”

“I know, I was-“

“Busy.”

He at least has the decency to sound cowed when he responds. “Yeah.” There’s a long pause, neither of them knowing what to say to possibly help bridge the rift that’s been forming between them for the better part of a decade. “Do.. do you need anything?”

Something repressed deep inside her shatters at her child assuming that the only reason his own mother would contact him would be for personal gain. Her throat dries up, and all the questions she’s wanted to ask him for years – are you okay, how are you coping, why don’t you ever visit -vanish from her mind. She gulps and replies, far more coldly than she wants to.

“Yes, actually. You _brother_ ” - she almost spits this out, and tries to calm herself while continuing. “wants your league card.” Of course, she doesn’t add that he’s his younger brother’s hero in every sense of the word, except the one way he should be. Jon shouldn’t look up at him as the elusive, mysterious Champion, protector of Galar. He should be looking up at him as his _older brother._

He seems hurried when he responds, like he’s trying to end the call quickly. “Yeah, I’ll have one sent over. Look I- I’ve got to go, I’ll-.”

The call cuts off and her heart sinks. She had, clearly naively, hoped that this time would be different.

-

Victor sighs to himself as he finally steps into his dark Wyndon apartment.

Today had somehow been more of a slog than usual, he thinks, asking the flat’s AI to turn on the lights and rubbing at his eyes as it does as instructed, the sudden brightness irritating his tired eyes. The latest Championship had recently finished, leaving him undefeated once again, but that doesn’t make him any less busy, what with the ridiculous quantity of meetings and interviews and photoshoots, and-. He sighs once again, betraying just how tired he really is.

Passing through the foyer he hardly notices his flat’s futuristic beauty, not in the way he had at 13, wide-eyed and full of hope. He pauses in the open living space, letting his Pokémon out to settle wherever they please. Voxk, his Corviknight, settles in the branches of a fake-but-realistic tree in the glass-encased indoor garden, while Gavir, a Charizard (evolved from the Charmander Leon gave him aeons ago), curls up happily underneath. Urshifu sits cross-legged in the grass, while Eternatus curls up into a ball in their corner of the garden, under the heat-lamp placed there to keep them warm.

That leaves only Zacian and Iskit, his Cinderace, to stare up at him with worried expressions. It should be concerning to him that even his Pokemon can notice his stress, but he brushes it off the best he can. “Come on then.” He tells them quietly, and they follow him to his bedroom, sharing glances all the way.

His room is beautiful, the embodiment of luxury, with two walls made up entirely of one-way windows with access to a huge balcony - which he drowsily tells the AI to tint black, blocking out the dazzling lights of the city below – floors of rich black wood overlayed with thick, soft rugs, a low bed piled with soft blankets and pillows, a gaudy yet comforting holographic waterfall behind his bed, an ensuite _dressing room_ – it has it all. Yet, he thinks to himself as he pulls off bits of stuffy formalwear, discarding them on the ground to be replaced with one of his surprisingly comfortable Champion uniform shirts, it’s never felt like _his_. All he’s added are the expensive pet beds tucked alongside his own bed, which his last two partners now occupy.

He flops into bed and fumbles for the remote, replacing the black tint of the windows with a beautifully realistic forest scene, complete with the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves overhead.

A realisation settles in his gut.

“Verna.” He mumbles, already nearly asleep, to the AI, “remind me to visit home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Cautionary Tales, Jon Bellion


	2. ii: when you look at yourself on a screen and say (“oh my god, there’s no way that’s me”)

_“And now back to Matthew in the studio.”_

_“Thank you, Tim. Now folks, I’m here today with our very own Champion, Victor! Tell me Champion, what did you think of the competition this year? Any potential rivalries in the works?”_

Caitlin pauses on hearing this, quietly heading towards the lounge where Jonathon sits on the floor, watching the TV. The reminder about not sitting so close to screens dies on her lips at what exactly is on said TV.

On the screen is her eldest son, sat across from the presenter of one of Galar’s top programs, on the sofa of a fake looking “living room” set. He’s extremely well dressed, immaculately even, in an expensive, freshly pressed suit and with his mess of waist-length curls carefully styled into a pristine bun with a braid framing his face like a halo. Yet, as he gives the cameras a winning smile, she can tell its hollow… even if the audience seems to eat it up.

 _“It always is a tough competition, even if it doesn’t necessarily seem so.”_ He laughs, but there’s no real emotion behind it. _“Though I think we’re all keeping an eye on Adrien”_ – the new fire gym leader, after Kabu had retired – _“there’s real potential there, that’s for sure.”_

 _“Of course, of course. Every new face brings new teams and tactics, after all. So, how are things going for you personally?”_ The host asks, like they’re friends having a catchup over a coffee and not being filmed for a show later broadcast to hundreds of thousands of people. _“Are you still enjoying Champion life?”_

 _“How could I not be?”_ He replies with a smile. _“I can hardly not enjoy myself with how the people of Galar have treated me.”_ That earns him a round of applause from the crowd, and the presenter smiles. _“I’m truly honoured to be your Champion.”_

“See what I mean, mum?” Jonathon comments excitedly, as the cheers from the show’s onstage audience only gets louder. “I told you he’s the coolest.”

With a forced smile she responds. “Of course, dear.” She hates lying to him, even if technically only by omission, but it can’t be helped. Last night she’d sat down with her husband and went through when they’d tell Jon about his actual relationship to the Champion, and they’d both agreed to not say anything unless Jonathon asked them (unlikely) or unless Victor reached out (borderline impossible). At this point to tell him would only hurt him, they agreed, with questions about why someone he looked up to so thoroughly wouldn’t spare a single moment to visit or even write to his own _brother_.

It’s at that moment that her phone – the Rotom one that she rarely uses – pings with two new messages.

_“Come to the Wedgehurst post office at ----.”_

_“There’ll be a surprise.”_

They’re both from Victor, surprisingly, and she checks the time. She has 20 minutes, plenty of time to pop down to Wedgehurst to see what in all the world this surprise is. With a glance over at Jon and his rapt attention on the TV, she figures that he’s better off staying here.

“I’m just popping down to Wedgehurst quickly.” She tells him. “You know the rules. Don’t answer the phone, don’t open the door, don’t touch the oven.” He nods distractedly, clearly not really listening. But he knows the rules already, so she pulls on her shoes and leaves with a kiss atop Jon’s forehead and a locked door behind her.

It doesn’t take her long to reach Wedgehurst, and in no time she’s approaching the post office. The town is as it always is, with its milling crowds and the _whoosh_ of a train leaving the station blocking out the natural ambience of the country.

All of a sudden, the general commotion of the small town falls quiet, an unnerving hush settling over the crowds. Even the wildlife seems to have fallen silent. She’s about to turn around to see what’s happening, when she hears a voice behind her.

“Hey mum.”

That voice makes her freeze, and she slowly turns.

Only to find her eldest child stood before her, his father’s old bag slung across his back and an apologetic look on his face. She should be angry at him, he knows she should, but all she can feel is relief at seeing him in the flesh for the first time in over _five years_.

All she manages to get out is a choked _“Vic”,_ before she’s rushing forward and practically collapsing into his arms. She feels steady arms hold her close, which is where they stay for a few more moments, until Vic pulls back with a teary, lopsided grin.

“So... would you say you’re adequately surprised?”

She has to laugh at the implication behind that question. “I was expecting a delivery or something, not for you to just appear out of thin air!”

“Well I do technically have a delivery.” There’s a humorous lilt to his voice that she hasn’t heard in years, almost a laugh. He draws back, taking her hand and pulling himself up to his full height, now a good head and shoulders taller than her. “Shall we get away from the cameras?”

It’s only then that she notices that various members of the public have their phones trained on them, with big smiles across their faces, chattering excitedly to eachother. She still hasn’t gotten used to the constant attention that being the mother of the Champion gets her, let alone with the Champion himself present too.

“Yeah, uhm.” She stumbles over her words a little. “Lets get you back home.”

With a warm smile and a few sweeping waves from Victor to the crowd, met with resounding applause, her son follows behind her as they make their way back along route 1, to where it all began.

 _Postwick_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: 929, Halsey


	3. iii: we’ll be looking for sunlight (or the headlights) / ‘til our wide eyes burn blind

Victor takes a deep, steadying breath, and has to crack a small smile at the familiarity of the air here.

Route 1 is the exact same as he remembers it being a decade ago, when he and Hop had excitedly ran along it, half racing and half playing as their starters had hung onto their shoulders. The same gravel crunches beneath their feet, the same plants wrap around an upturned wheelbarrow and slip through gaps in old wooden fences. Wooloo meander along the winding rural paths, bleating at any Skwovet who dare to get too close. Rookidees that he swears he saw aeons ago (when he caught what would eventually become his Corviknight) occasionally surface from the tall grasses surrounding the route. The air still has that distinct countryside smell (which totally doesn’t have an edge of manure), disturbed by the light afternoon breeze. A part of him wishes he could stay here forever, in this comfortably familiar purgatory, the crossroads between two eras, the last road on a decade-overdue return journey.

But it’s not long before they’re back in Postwick, in the tiny cluster of homes atop one of the many rolling hills looking down on Wedgehurst. The breeze picks up the looser strands of his braided hair, dancing them in the air and tickling his cheeks. The country seems to stretch out for miles below them, an endless expanse of squares of yellows and greens, only disrupted by dry-stone walls and hedgerows, with the occasional town or farm-house. The sky is an equally wide cerulean drapery, a firmament unbroken by a single cloud, whether white or dangerously grey. Within it the sun shines proudly, like it’s both the curator and the centrepiece of the masterpiece laid out before them.

With a far too shuddered breath he turns, following his mum up the uneven steps to the cottage that he called his home for half his life.

His first step through the threshold feels significant in a way he’s unable to put into words.

The interior of his childhood home is just as unchanged as the rest of Postwick. The same worn rug muffles his steps as he walks into the hall, where the same metal pitcher holds the same assortment of umbrellas. The same Munchlax, Rory, waddles up to him to bump into his legs in his version of affection.

Everything is the same.

Except-

The unknown coat on the hangers. The comparatively tiny trainers on the shoe rack.

The sound of a child’s laughter from the lounge.

He pauses, not for the first time completely unsure of what to do. He knows about his younger half-brother, of course – long ago he was able to be involved in his life, even if only a little, before he’d come of age and was so swamped with extra Champion duties that his occasional visits for his brother’s first few birthdays and solstices had vanished practically overnight.

Somehow, he’s only now met with the realisation that he knows absolutely nothing about his brother – except from that he’s apparently a big League fan.

With a reassuring smile from his mum, he steps into the lounge.

The first thing that hits him is how similar Jonathon looks to him. They share the same rich black hair, though his brother’s seems to be far less unruly than his own. When Jonathon turns around, curious about the unfamiliar footsteps behind him, he can see that they also share the same eyes – or they would have, once upon a time, before the fight against Eternatus had left him with inexplicably orange-red eyes, instead of a full amber.

The next thing to hit him is the shock that plays across his face at seeing the Champion himself stood awkwardly in the doorframe of his living room. Victor watches the myriad of emptions playing across his face carefully. There’s utter shock, then excitement, elation, and finally a flash of fear, half-terror, and the dawning realisation he’s obviously having.

The elder sibling takes a half-step forward, testing the waters, as his brother scrambles to his feet.

“Who… who are you?” Jonathon asks, even though they’re both aware that he knows the answer. It’s more a ploy to buy him some time, to allow him to process all that’s happening.

Victor shifts his father’s old bag off his back, setting it on the floor by his feet, unaware of how exactly to answer, how exactly to explain their relationship. A part of him snidely comments that he’s not his brother, aside from a weak blood relation, that Vic had lost the right to claim that title 5 years ago when he’d vanished from his family’s lives. The Champion then? But he’s sick of being the Champion to everybody, just himself never enough.

After taking a moment to collect himself, he finally speaks up.

“It’s good to see you again, little brother.”

The younger of the siblings gulps, eyes switching between staring up at his mum and the Champion – his _brother_ , as he tries to make sense of this. Hit with a burst of panic, all he can do is run past them and along the hall into his bedroom, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Victor turns guiltily, looking to his mother for advice. She smiles, tiredly, guiding him into the kitchen to fix him some tea. “Leave him be for now, and talk to him later. He just needs time to process.” She presses a mug of earl grey – which she keeps buying just in case he visits, even though she’s not a fan of it herself. “As do you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Drive, Halsey


	4. iv: name in the sky / does it ever get lonely?

It’s a couple of hours later when he works up the courage to go talk to Jonathon again.

His step-father had arrived back home about half an hour ago, and he’d risen from where he and his mum had been talking in the lounge to shake his hand. Steven will never be his father, but he’s still a good man, and in the very least he can respect him for making his mother happy.

And before he’d known it, it was tea-time and a plate of beans on toast was pushed into his hands after he’d finished his own meal.

With measured steps he approaches his brother’s room (which, once upon a time, had been his own) and he almost recoils in shock.

The room, while of course structurally the same, also looks almost identical to how it had when he was a child. Similar posters of Wyndon and various Pokémon line the walls, while figurines of gym leaders and their teams – including himself – are laid out in rows atop a dresser. And in the corner, half-buried under layers of bright quilts, his brother is sat up in bed, the latest handheld in his grip as he button-mashes. Seemingly out of instinct, he pauses his game, and starts at the sight of him.

“Hey… Mum wanted me to bring you tea.” He says, uncertain.

They’re both silent for a while. It takes a while before he decides to approach, perching himself at the foot of his old bed, his brother still staring up at him with wide eyes, seemingly out of a mix of fear and awe.

He offers the boy his dinner, holding it out to him as he sets down his handheld and cautiously accepts it. They sit in silence as he eats, quickly finishing his meal, before he finally speaks up.

“You’re the champion, aren’t you?”

A nod.

“And you’re my brother.”

A second nod.

At these responses he looks down at his lap, then quietly asks. “Where have you been?”

“Wyndon, technically.” He starts, trying to lighten the mood. When that clearly doesn’t work, he continues. “I- I brought you something.” With that, he reaches into his bad for an envelope, which he gives Jonathon.

With shaking hands its opened, and its contents revealed.

Inside is a single League card, in a protective pocket. It’s one of his, to be exact, from the season just finished, holo and sighed with a practiced hand. On it he’s smiling at the camera, one hand on his sword and the other laid on Eternatus’ head where they hover protectively behind him. He’s in full match gear – a Champion shirt with matching wide-leg trousers, non-practical armoured pauldrons and greaves in a shining silver, and a cape complete with a matching feather mantle, all in blacks and reds and ochres. It’s a ridiculous outfit, he’ll be the first to admit (privately, of course), but the League had decided it best that his signature look lean into the “Protector of Galar” title the media had given him, and in the very least it works well in photos.

“I heard that you’re a fan of me.”

“Yeah, I-“ Jonathon pauses as he flips over the card, flitting over the information there. From experience he knows there’s a small bio that oversimplifies his time in the League, followed by his stats, including his win/loss ratio in official matches (80/0) and a quick description of his active team that season.

“Can I see your Pokémon-.” He blurts out, before going quiet and looking away.

Victor nods, happy for anything that can help him avoid their previous topic. “I don’t think mum would appreciate me letting Charizard out in the house, but..” He takes a nondescript Pokéball from his belt, and lets out Zacian.

His younger brother seems understandably awed at the sight of a world-defending legendary wolf stood calmly in the middle of his bedroom. He slowly leaves his bed, shocked as he cautiously approaches Zacian. With a shaking hand he reaches out-

And jumps as a wet nose is pushed up into his hand. Vic watches on with a knowing smile as his caution falls away to awed joy, the legendary laying down to let the child run his hands down his soft back.

Unbeknownst to most, both Eternatus and Zacian (and, according to Hop, Zamazenta too) are absolute cuddle-bugs, demanding attention constantly and content to occasionally serve as oversized pillows in return for pets. It had certainly been a surprise to him too, when he was barely 13 and the alien dragon of chaos that he was somehow now the trainer of had gone from nearly ending the world (which, yes, was entirely Rose’s fault, but still left a certain impression) to demanding head scratches.

So enthralled in his thoughts as he is, it takes a soft, ethereal howl from Zacian for him to realise that his little brother had fallen asleep beside them, hand still carded through their mane. The sight makes him smile, and he gets his Rotom phone to take a quick photo before he carefully picks him up and tucks him into his bed.

With the long-forgotten dinner plate in one hand and Zacian by his side, he heads out into the hall, and towards the uncomfortable, decade-overdue conversation that undoubtedly awaits him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Without Me, Halsey


	5. v: I’ve missed your calls (for months it seems) / don’t realise (how mean I can be)

He doesn’t get far – only to the kitchen, where he places the plate by the sink – before he notices his mother’s presence out alone in the garden. From all he can see through the kitchen window, she’s sat out on the patio, on one of the old, white, plastic garden chairs, huddled in a blanket of some kind. Without really thinking about it, he steps out the kitchen door, Zacian following closely behind.

Despite it only being about 8pm the sky is already a dark expanse of ink, only holding onto any residual splashes of cobalt when directly illuminated. Clouds have started to roll in, ashy scuffs marring the array of stars visible out here (the one’s he hasn’t seen in years, not with Wyndon’s level of light pollution). From up here on the hills the country below them is not much more than an abyss, a stretch of void with forms vaguely resembling rolling hills, only made natural again by the occasional orange glow of artificial lighting casting tiny slithers of the depths back into the earthly realm. The air is so bitingly cold that it’s somehow warm, and he can taste the almost blood-like edge that it brings with its oppressive stillness. It’s silent too, almost impossibly so, like the dark hills truly are an abyss, sucking any errant sound into their ravenous depths.

He carefully heads along the uneven path-stones, punctuated by trodden grasses that grown between the pavers, to the stone-paved area that serves as a deck, where his mother still sits, pensive. Without a word he quietly perches himself on the chair beside her, while Zacian settles on the floor beside him. Both of them are silent for a great few minutes, watching the swathes of landscape before them with a sort of rapt apathy, in hopes that staring listlessly out at the invisible vista will grant them the answers to their unspoken questions.

The tension between them is as biting as the frigid air.

Victor takes a deep breath that burns his throat with ice and fear, before speaking.

“I’m sorry.”

It takes her a few moments to respond, and when she does it’s uneven, stilted almost, like she’s uncertain of her words. “What for?” He lets out a long deep breath, more like a sigh, one that feels like it’s been building up for years, and with it a feeling of resolute peace washes over him.

“For everything. For running off to chase fame, for never bothering to reach out, for – well, for abandoning you all.” He places his hand out between them, fingers unfurled and palm facing upwards.

A peace offering, in all but name. An invitation, to a conversation neither of them feel ready to have.

With a tiny, shuddered sigh, she lays her hand on his. Neither of them move for a moment. Then-

“Can – can I be honest with you here?”

“Of course.” He replies, and she gulps before continuing.

“I… I was never angry at you. It was more… grief. It felt like I lost you, like one day you were there and the next you were gone, vanished into the night, like you never existed in the first place.” He opens his mouth to apologise but his words catch in his throat at the expression of pure grief on his mum’s face. “It’s as if the whole world got to watch you grow up…”

“Except you.” He finishes for her, palm tracing comfortingly across the back of her hand where it lays in his, as if to remind her that he’s still here.

“Yes.”

They sit in another drawn out silence for a while, neither having the courage to continue such an unexpectedly heavy conversation. Beside Vic, Zacian howls softly, resting his chin on his trainer’s knee and looking up at him with an expression mixed between concern and encouragement.

Once he’s got his next words planned out he speaks, piercing through the oppressive silence.

“I know things haven’t been great.“ He starts, his words careful and measured. Shame at how long overdue his words are stains his face crimson, not helped by the biting edge to the air that rubs his cheeks red-raw. He can’t look at his own mother as he hastily adds – “to say the least.” A pause, during which he deigns to look down at Zacian instead. “But they’ll get better.”

And with a newfound determination he squeezes her hand and looks her in the eyes for the first time in five years as he finishes his accidental promise.

“I’ll make them better.”

She seems to contemplate this for a while, before speaking up.

“Visit. At least once a year.”

He nods, resting a hand on Zacian‘s head. “Unless the region is literally on fire.” He adds with a smile. ”And I’ll make it to as many events and milestones and the like as I can. It’s the least I can do.”

Once again their conversation falls into a stilted silence, one far too telling of the ravenous abyss of alienation that had started to splinter the ground between them the moment Vic first laid his eyes on Scorbunny a decade ago.

“I just want to… be clear“ She starts, slowly, enunciating her words as if to draw them out and buy herself some time. “that this doesn’t fix everything.” She doesn’t need to clarify on the subject, either. They both understand perfectly. “It’s a start, but.”

“I understand. I’ll make this better mum, no matter how long it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Sorry, Halsey


	6. vi: it’s something else (it’s in the blood)

The following day is eventful from the very start.

Victor is woken up by the sounds of a meal being prepared in the kitchen, with the muffled clang of an iron pan placed on a hob burner and the hiss of something coming into contact with hot oil. With an internalised groan he rubs at his eyes, momentarily confused about when Bede got back from Balloonlea until he realises where he really is. Not in the vast emptiness of his bed in his sterile Wyndon apartment, but cramped onto a small sofa in his childhood home in Postwick.

Something in him really wants to go back to sleep now that he knows Leon isn’t expecting him up at a reasonable hour, but he pulls himself upright regardless. Zacian perks up from where they’re lying on the floor next to the sofa, and he pets his Pokémon on their head as he rises, stumbling sleepily into the kitchen in the loose trousers and spare shirt he’s using as pyjamas. With a half-mumbled greeting to his mum he heads straight for the kettle, which he fills with water before returning to its dock and tiredly turning on. Leaning back against the countertop he lets himself zone out for a while before his attention is captured by Zacian, who is sat before him on the kitchen floor and looking up at him with ridiculously pleading eyes.

“Mum” he asks, voice slightly scratchy, “is it okay for me to feed my team out in the garden?”

She nods as she adds bacon to the frying pan. “Did you bring them the pre-packaged stuff or do you need to make something?”

“I’ve got tins,” he replies, rummaging in his bag for them. Zacian whines, clearly disappointed. “Oh, shush you.” He comments, stepping back into the kitchen with a carrier bag full. How all his Pokémon have ended up so spoilt he’ll never know. The tins he feeds them on nights he’s too tired to cook or order in are tailored, custom ordered, borderline gourmet. They eat better than him half the time. “If I get a chance to go into Wedgehurst for ingredients I’ll make curry tonight.”

At that they perk up, following him out of the kitchen door and down the sparse pavers that serve as steps lining the hillside. Once at the bottom of the hill, he dishes the canned food onto six plates before letting out the rest of his team to eat. (And yes, that includes Eternatus. Apparently, space dragons _love_ chicken).

In the meantime, he hops up onto the short dry-stone wall, and simply relaxes. In the years since he’s last visited the Isle of Armor it has been easy to forget about the meditative practices that Mustard had taught him, but in the quiet breezes of the early morning he finds himself unconsciously slipping into that calm, his breathing evening out on its own. For this first time since his appointment as Champion he feels he can truly shut off, to sink back into himself and forget that the rest of the world exists, without ten-thousand thoughts running through his head constantly, without having to be the Protector of Galar or the Champion or even Victor.

In reality he only phases out for a few minutes, and he comes back to the world shortly after his team have finished eating, when Iskit taps him on the shoulder before bounding off back to the group. In his absence his companions seem to have made themselves rather comfortable in the garden – Eternatus lies on their back, seemingly watching the clouds roll by above them. Zacian has laid down by their side too, watching as Iskit and Gar playfight in the long grass. Voxk preens himself, perched up on the wall perpendicular to him, while Urshifu rests cross-legged against the aforementioned wall.

Deciding that they should get some time out of their Pokéballs he lets them be, leaving them with their breakfast supplies back in the carrier bag and a reminder for none of them to leave the walls of the garden.

By the time he’s back in the kitchen Jonathon is up too, watching something on his handheld as he distractedly eats some cereal. At the door he sheds the slip-on shoes he’d donned while outside heading towards the counter where the kettle rests. “Tea?” He asks his mum as he grabs a non-descript mug from the cabinet. At her hum of approval, he takes another, dropping a black teabag into her cup and an earl grey one into his. With the addition of water and milk to both and a half-teaspoon of sugar to hers, they join Jonathon at the table with two plates of bacon and mushrooms and the like.

“You mentioned wanting to go into Wedgehurst today, didn’t you?” His mother asks, addressing him as he finishes his mouthful.

“Yeah - mainly to get ingredients. I have a feeling my team will riot if I don’t make them curry tonight.”

“You should probably head out soon then. Before town gets too busy.” She pauses to take a draught of her tea. “And grab some green milk while you’re there, we’re nearly out.”

Not long later he’s dressed (in what he calls casual clothing, but in reality, is business casual at the very least – a dress shirt with formal trousers and dress shoes, with his hair in a braid) and ready to go. Intending to hurry into Wedgehurst, he quickly pops back down to the end of the garden to inform his team of his destination when he spots a small figure hovering about at the foot of the hill.

It’s Jonathon of course. He shifts from foot to foot, before Vic approaches him, which seems to finally prompt him to speak.

“Can I come with you into town?” He asks nervously. “Mum said I can, but that I should ask you if it’s okay.”

Something in him softens at that. “Of course you can.” He turns to his team, who are still spread out across the garden. “I’m heading out for a while, nobody die please.”

Iskit, his Cinderace, bounds up to him, warbling out a sentence which, while he obviously can’t understand the exact content of, he can hazard a good guess as to the question being asked. “Only down to Wedgehurst. Do you want to come too?” In response he gets a nod, so he turns back to his younger brother. “Get your shoes on then” – for he seemed to have thrown on his wellies to go outside – “And we’ll head out once you’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: White Teeth Teens, Lorde
> 
> I think it's pertinent to mention that "green milk" is just semi-skimmed milk (it has a green lid & label) not actual green milk haha.


	7. vii: and in my world (the people on the street don’t know my name)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for disappearing for a month haha <3
> 
> also sorry for never responding to comments, my brain is an anxious mess 99% of the time :(

The journey into Wedgehurst is, in of itself, pretty uneventful. Jonathon is quiet the almost the whole way, the route familiar to him after years of walking it twice-daily for school, and his interest seems far more focused on Iskit, whom he watches for pretty much the entire journey.

Vic himself is far more concerned with stamping down the panic threatening to build up within him at the sight of the small town approaching in the distance. In comparison to every other place he regularly visits (with the exception of Balloonlea), usually on League business, and, of course, Wyndon, it’s absolutely tiny, a few shops and a train station surrounded by less than forty houses in its close vicinity, but it’s the relatively high exposure that concerns him. In Wyndon he knows where he can go to escape the crowds, which cafes and strange bookstores in obscure backstreets don’t make a fuss about his presence. Plus, there’s always the promise of an escape in the form of his penthouse, a refuge as much as it is a prison, with its tight security and isolation from the city below it. But out here there’s nowhere to hide, not in the open streets of Wedgehurst, nor in the exposed fields that surround them for all observable distance, nor in his relatively vulnerable childhood home.

As lost in his thoughts as he is, they’re nearly at the end of the route before he knows it. “Heads up kiddo, you should stick by my side.” He says, looking down on Wedgehurst from the slight hill they stand atop. “I have a… tendency to attract attention.”

And with that, they step into town.

Surprisingly, they seem to slip under the radar, with the few people about at this time who seem to recognise him simply smiling at him. Their first stop is the small supermarket by the train station. Miraculously still the independent, family-run one from his childhood, with a door that still chimes electronically when they step through the threshold, and an interior that doesn’t seem to have changed at all, with the same faintly stale smell and hazy yellow lighting. With the tap of his shoes against the scuffed tile floor he can almost pretend that he’s 10 again, trailing behind his mum like Jonathon is now, awed by the bright packaging of the three-for-£1 sweets.

He doesn’t need much from here – Wedgehurst has a dedicated berry store, after all, and he’d prefer to get the rest of his produce from Ms Fairfax’s little garden stall that she’s apparently still running. But some things must be bought from a traditional shop, and as such he heads through the narrow aisles to the fridges. The items here are expensive (such as is the downside of living rurally – his mum usually travels twice-monthly to the big supermarket in Hulbury where essentials are far more affordable) but compared to Wyndon’s absurd prices it’s nothing, so he takes two milks from the fridge, as well as a pack of bacon and some generic-brand digestives. He turns to Jonathon, who is still looking over the sweets with an expression of false nonchalance. As he approaches, he notices that his gaze keeps flicking back onto a particular brand of sweets, those little hard caramel and chocolate balls that he too loved as a kid. When he reaches his little brother’s side, he reaches over to pluck a packet off the shelf, turning it over in his hand as if studying it. Then, at the confused expression on Jonathon’s face he clarifies – “what flavour do you want then?”

Jonathon seems to startle at the sudden voice. “No, it’s okay, I-“

A steady hand is placed on his shoulder, and Vic laughs a little at the surprise on his face. “When I was a kid, my favourites were the mint ones.”

Emboldened by this snippet of information, he mumbles - “I like the plain ones.”

Vic smiles and pats him on the shoulder, before grabbing a pack – of the aforementioned flavour – and dropping it into the basket. “Come on, let’s go pay.”

Soon enough they’ve paid, and with a 50 from the cash machine in his wallet they continue onwards, somehow more and more anonymous and they fade into the crowds of the rapidly filling streets. Their next destination is the berry store, still with its charming storefront lined with flowers and crates of produce. And finally, with his satchel full of berries in brown paper bags, he leads Jonathon through the open streets to a house that was, once upon a time, almost his second home (even over Hop’s house, and he was over there nearly every day after school).

Outside the garden there’s still a cart with plenty of fresh vegetables laid out, and he takes a bag from the display, filling it with a variety of produce and adding up the cost as he goes on his rotom. And with that he leaves the payment plus a hefty tip in the safe box, and they’re about to leave when a voice calls out from behind them.

“I haven’t heard of you being back in town.”

He turns, only to see Helen Fairfax, or, for him, Ms Fairfax, poking out from the open front door. She’s a lively woman of his mother’s age, who is both her lifelong friend and his own godmother, with dark skin and darker hair tucked into a large-brimmed straw hat. At the sight of her he can’t help but smile, approaching her and accepting the smothering hug he receives.

“I only arrived yesterday” He says, in response to her statement. “And I don’t imagine you’d want me to come calling at 10pm.”

She scoffs- “My door is open anytime, isn’t that what I’ve always told you? Come on in-“ At his hesitation she laughs, continuing. “I insist. It’s been far too long since we’ve had time to talk. Oh- and you have Jon with you?”

At the mention of his name he looks up from where he’d been playing with Iskit, and Victor nods. “Let me just text mum and we’ll be right in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Clementine, Halsey


	8. viii: I’m faking glory / turn the smile on

For Victor, stepping into Ms Fairfax’s home feels like he’s been transported back in time 12 years.

The entrance has hardly changed from when he was a child, still airy and blanketed with the scent of old cotton and lavender, with the same cream-papered walls and polished wooden furniture. Jonathon follows his lead, taking off his shoes and carefully sitting down in the living room they’re ushered into.

“What would you like dear?” Ms Fairfax calls from the adjacent kitchen, and he calls back-

“Any tea you have is fine!”

He then turns to his brother say beside him, and nudges him. “Relax” he says simply, taking note of how rigidly upright he’s sat. “Do you want a drink too?”

His brother bites his lip and nods – “Can- can I have what you had? Tea?”

Vic looks at him, puzzled, knowing that at Jonathon’s age he’d hated the taste, but regardless he acquiesces, heading into the kitchen to help.

“Jonathon would like a tea too” he comments to Helen as he steps into the room, opening the fridge from muscle memory to hand her the milk stored within. “I don’t know if he’s ever had any before, so it might be worthwhile to make it weaker for him.”

“He’s copying you.” She comments sagely, almost cryptically, as she pours water into three mugs. “Your mum told me he does that a lot, and that even before you arrived yesterday.”

“Lots of kids do, I’m sure.” It’s meant to come off placatingly, but it manages to have a sardonic edge, which he quickly tries to correct himself with “I mean-“, but she interrupts.

“So,” she starts, in a firm tone clearly not brokering any argument on the change of subject. “How have things been for you?”

This question makes him pause, unsure of how exactly to answer. Years of interviews and formal small talk have trained him to the point where his typical reply is already forming on his lips, a polite yet distant “ _wonderful as always, and you?_ ”, carefully designed to pass the brunt of carrying the conversation onto the other participant. Yet he stills his tongue.

The ‘other participant’ is Ms Fairfax, his mother’s childhood friend and his own godmother, who acted almost as a third (and then second, after his father’s death) parent throughout his own childhood, not some talk show host. He’s leaning against a decidedly dated, out-of-fashion tiled counter in a small kitchen, wearing only half a suit, his hair frizzy and loose in a casual braid, most certainly not in a pristine three-piece on an immaculate and artificial stage. Here there’s no reputation to think of, no strict social etiquette or judgemental prying ears, no influence or networking to consider, no allegiances to be had, no agendas to push or be pushed upon. Here he can – for perhaps one of the first times in the last decade – finally speak freely.

Upon realising this he takes a deep breath and speaks his thoughts fully once again, for the third time in both two days and a decade.

“As well as they can be” he starts, and with a sharp look from Helen he realises that he’s fallen back into his usual way of speaking, full of meaningless filler. Frowning and steadying himself, he continues. “My job is very… _involved._ I – I don’t think I’ve had a moment truly to myself in years.”

She nods as she pours milk into their drinks. “Being here is a start, isn’t it?”

After some hesitation he responds, his voice strangely wistful, sorrowful even. “I’ve only been back home a day, yet I’m already dreading leaving. Everywhere I look I’m drawing comparisons between life here and life in Wyndon, and with each minute that passes the urge to fail the next championship and retire here increases, to leave all the artifice and commotion and stress behind, and-“ It’s only now that he realises that he’s crying, small salty droplets that leave silver trails down his cheeks as his breath catches.

He quickly goes to wipe them away, but more keep coming, which only makes him more distressed, and the cycle continues, building on itself until a hand is placed upon his shoulder. It’s steady and grounding, and with its assistance he can feel his breathing even out after a few moments.

“How long has it been since you’ve spoken to someone about this?”

His breath hitches once again, but he wills the emotions back down, and takes in a long, wet breath, before replying. “There’s been moments“ - with Bede, Hop & Marnie mainly, but with his other friends too – “where I’ve touched on my feelings about… everything. But it’s a difficult topic to broach.”

“They’re here for you, you know?” She says, drawing him in for a comforting embrace. “Your friends. Myself too, and your mum. You don’t need to go through any of this alone.”

They pause where they are for a short eternity, content as the wet dears pooling around his eyes dry into faint webs of glittery trace silver, and his breathing evens out finally. Once he feels composed again, he pulls away and laughs softly, voice still a little rough.

“The tea’s gone cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: Bravado, Lorde


	9. ix: turn dreams into an empire

Jonathon shifts uncertainly on the somehow uncomfortably soft, aged sofa. His brother (and how strange it still is to think of the Champion as his brother!) and Ms Fairfax had emerged from the kitchen after a strangely extensive time there, with mugs in their hands and red-rimmed eyes. And now they’re sat in the lounge, chatting casually together as if nothing happened, their conversation only interrupted by brief pauses whenever they take sips of their respective beverages. His own drink is balanced in his lap, nearly untouched. He’s tried to drink some a couple of times, but it was hot and strange, and it made loud slurping noises that turned his face bright red whenever he tries to leisurely sip it like he’s seen the grown-ups do countless times before. Trying to pass the time he starts looking about the living room, when Ms Fairfax gets up and heads towards the bookshelf.

“Tell me Jonathon,” she addresses him in a strangely innocent tone of voice. “Have you seen many photos of your brother when he was younger?”

“Not- not really?” He replies, unsure of where this is going.

She smiles sweetly and plucks a photo album off the shelf, and Victor groans. “Please don’t” he mutters half-heartedly, before giving up on his protests as quickly as they’d began.

When she sits back down on an armchair Jonathon gets up, leaving his tea on the side table and perching himself on the arm of the chair to get a good view of the book she holds. Even Iskit follows him, peering over his shoulder as Ms Fairfax opens the album to its first page.

The initial few sets of photos are all of Victor as a baby, impossibly small for someone destined to be Champion, dressed in jumpers and dungarees and little bandanas, held in their mother’s arms in front of the Turffield glyphs or reaching out to pet a Budew. In one he’s sat on the shoulders of a man that Jonathon doesn’t recognise, but that looks eerily similar to his brother. Sure, the man’s hair is far too blonde and his eyes far too green, but there’s something in his face that he sees echoed in his brother’s now. Maybe it’s the edge of his jaw, or the shape of his eyes, or even just how tall he is, but there’s a clear resemblance.

“Who’s that?” He opts to ask, reaching out to point to the unfamiliar man.

“That’s… well…” Ms Fairfax starts, not sure quite how to phrase it, and Victor sets down his tea to come over and take a look.

“That’s my dad.”

At that Jonathon frowns, confused. “But that’s not my dad.”

He nods, reaching over to turn the page, revealing another photo of him and that man, this time with his dad carrying a stack of firewood, and his 4-year-old self following closely behind, clearly struggling with his own pile of twigs. Then he pauses, frowning, unsure of how exactly to phrase this. “We have different dads, but the same mum.” Another pause, this own longer, before he sighs deeply. “Mine died when I was young.”

Jonathon bites his lips, worried. Social etiquette may not be something he’s particularly aware of at his age, but he can still tell that he’s upset his brother. “I’m sorry.”

Victor smiles at him and reaches over to ruffle his hair. “It’s okay, you didn’t know.” Then, once again, he turns the page, this time a few ahead, to where there’ll hopefully be no more photos of his dad. Iskit makes a sound similar to a laugh at one of the photos, and he focuses on that one.

It’s one taken the day Leon had brought them their starters – in it he and Hop stand next to each other, grinning into the camera. His rival’s arm is slung over his shoulders, and in his other hand is his Grookey, while his own Iskit – at that point a tiny Scorbunny – perches like a parrot on his shoulder. Behind them Leon is grinning too, in his old Champion outfit and with his hands on his hips, while a Sobble pokes her head out from behind his mane of hair.

“You were so tiny back then.” He remarks to Iskit, who looks at him with an expression that convers an unsaid response of ‘you were too’.

“Is that the Chairman?” Jonathon asks, pointing to Leon, and he nods.

“He was the Champion back then, but yes, that’s Lee, on the day that he gave Hop and I our starters.” His brother seems to not recognise the name, so he indicates to where he is in the photo. “His younger brother, one of my rivals during our gym challenge. And my closest friend.”

“Why don’t I know him?”

“Have you not watched my older matches?”

“Only back to the one where you became Champion.”

He smiles. “That explains it – I beat him in the Semis, and, after I beat Leon, he realised that he wanted to go into academia instead, and ever since he’s tried to avoid media attention.” Then he stands, both to stretch his legs and also to finish his forgotten tea before it goes entirely cold.

For a few minutes he simply stands in the comfortable warmth on the living room, absent-mindedly sipping at his beverages as the watches as dust particles catch the morning light and shimmer like tiny diamonds.

His attention is then caught by Jonathon seemingly listing off all of the gym leaders to Helen, including some – like Kabu and Piers – who have since retired. He heads over and, leaning on the back of the armchair that Helen occupies, looks over at the open album.

This time the focus is on a photo taken just after he’d beaten Leon. He’s front and centre, Leon’s cape wrapped around his shoulders and matching cap sat atop his head like a lopsided crown. Still in his challenger uniform, it’s clear he’s straight off the pitch from the closing ceremony, with the Championship trophy (at that point nearly half his size) clutched in his hands, his eyes wide and realisation of just _what_ he’s just won likely not having set in just yet. Immediately surrounding him are his rivals – Hop with a giant grin on his face, one hand held up to shield his eyes from the flash of the cameras all around them, Marnie just as shocked as he is but still smiling, looking to him with her Morpeko sat atop her shoulder to avoid the crowds, and Bede trying his damnedest to appear indifferent but still smiling slightly. Then behind them Leon grins, strangely small without the bulk of his cape, arms crossed and hair wild, then Raihan posing for the cameras and Piers looking exhausted as always, then Sonia, Nessa, Gordie, Bea, Kabu and Milo, and, in the gaps between and over the shoulders of their group, there’s crowds as far as the eye can see, camera flashes and banners and confetti filling the sky.

He laughs at his expression in the photo. “Why do I look terrified?”

He mentally answers himself.

‘Because you were.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title: New Americana, Halsey


	10. x: we’ve gone way too fast (for way too long)

Later that night Victor is sat by a fire in the garden of his childhood home, absentmindedly stirring a curry as he thinks over the events of the day. They’d left Ms Fairfax’s house after another half an hour of photos and embarrassing photos, and had headed straight home after a warm send-off and a promise from Vic to write. He was tempted to visit the Lab, but assumed that Sonia wouldn’t appreciate him dropping by with no warning, and once they reached home Jonathon left him to go play video games in his room (probably needing some space to process properly).

After putting the shopping away, he’d went out into the garden, finding Zacian carrying a basket in their mouth, trailing his mum. Iskit had bounded down past him into the lower garden to rejoin the rest of his team, and he’d laughed at the sight of a world-defending, apocalypse-stopping Pokemon helping him mum to garden.

At that his mum had looked up and smiled at him, trowel in hand and a streak of dirt across her nose. “I see you’ve acquired a farmhand.” He’d laughed as she’d stood and brushed soil off her trousers.

“Zacian here has been a big help today, haven’t you?” The last address was to the aforementioned Pokémon, who carefully placed the blanket they were carrying on the ground and howled in agreement.

Taking a deep whiff of the nearly-done curry, he comes back to the present, taking a spoon to taste the meal. It seems done, so he lifts the wok off the stand and places it on a secondary one he has waiting next to the fire. Footsteps approach, a mixture of light and heavy, fast and steady, as his team realises that their dinner is done, and he passes full steaming bowls to Iskit, who then distributes them to the rest of the group, and soon enough they’re all say around the fire, eating away in a comfortable silence.

Eternatus, seemingly finished with their portion, comes over and lays down next to him, resting their head on his leg. Out of routine he starts to pet them, softly stroking along their alien snout.

“Hey mate.” He murmurs, content to simply sit there and watch the sunset.

Zacian approaches too, laying down by Eternatus’ side (for century-long enemies they get along surprisingly well when some human isn’t forcing ‘tern to bring about the apocalypse for like the third time), and before he knows it his entire team have congregated about him, with Iskit laying on his back – for once still – watching the stars that are slowly being revealed as the eventing darkens to night. Gavirsk, his Charizard, is curled up into a ball at his feet, while Vokx rests by her side, and Urshifu sits, cross-legged and upright, but more relaxed than usual, behind Zacian and Eternatus.

Here, watching the sky fade from orange to purple to a near-black, a feeling of peace settles over him. Usually such inaction makes him anxious, as used to constant movement as he is, prompting him to scroll through various social media feeds or work out or _something_ , yet out here everything is so quiet and stationary that his own stillness doesn’t feel discordant like it does in Wyndon.

“I’m glad you’re here with me.” He whispers, a thought he’s had in regards to his companions for a decade, but that he’s never had the guts to admit to aloud. Eternatus clearly hears him as they lift their head up to look him in the eyes.

In his head he hears them speak, a rare occurrence as it apparently takes them a lot of energy to do so, which makes the occasions on which they do feel significant. “I am glad too” they reply, their vocabulary slightly stilted after centuries of slumber. Their head turns to survey the landscape before them, still faintly illuminated by the last dredges of daylight spilling out across the horizon. “I always forget the beauty of this world.”

A realisation settles in his gut.

“Me too.” He whispers, still processing the revelation. “Me too.”

\--

For about twenty more minutes they remain out in the garden, before the slight chill to the air evolves into a blanket of ice that worms its way into his bones and he’s forced to retreat inside, with the last of the fire properly extinguished and their cooking supplies collected up. This time it’s Eternatus (as well as Zacian) who stays out of their ball, following him through the now-silent house as he prepares himself a cup of tea, and waiting in the lounge as he changes into his makeshift pyjamas and brushes his teeth in the bathroom.

Curled up on the living room floor they watch as he scrolls through his social media feeds for a while before he finally falls asleep. They share a look before getting up, Zacian to nudge their trainer’s hands off is Rotom, letting it free to fly into his bag, and Eternatus to pull the blankets up to properly cover him. Then, as soon as they’d stood, they return back to the blanket pile temporarily serving as their beds.

“He’s terrible at taking due care, of himself at least.” Zacian whispers, turning to their companion.

Eternatus’ reply is simple – “Isn’t that what makes him great?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * great as in powerful, not as in good
> 
> Title: Young and Menace, Fall Out Boy


End file.
